Heroes and Cowards
by RockaRoller88
Summary: Linebeck, some time after the events of Phantom Hourglass, sits idly in a bar reflecting on times past. Unfortunately, some nefarious characters jerk him out of his revery, casting him into a situation that challenges everything he has become. Oneshot.


**A/N:** Thanks to everyone who read my last story, Remembrance, this is a fic on a slightly different tangent. I just loved the character of Linebeck in Phantom Hourglass (such a great redemptive character!) and here is my take on his personality! Enjoy!

Warning!: This fic contains violent scenes, because swords are sharp and pointy!

Disclaimer: RockaRoller88 owns nothing! Not even this computer!

The amber liquid swirls lazily across the side of my glass as I tilt it between my fingers. A distorted reflection stares back at me, flattened and browned by the panes of alcohol and glass. The scotch bites back angrily as it disappears down my throat, pressing hot needles into my esophagus that quickly fade into relieved numbness that spreads to my face and fingers.

"Another scotch, please," I tell the barkeep.

"Yessir, mister Linebeck," he obliges politely.

I hear more than see my new drink arrive; the melodious ring of the golden liquid pouring into the shooter accompanies the angry shuffle of glass on wood as it slides to me. My sad green eyes stare back at me through the oblique glass, bringing me back to cold hard reality, grounding me in the truth of what it is I am.

"I haven't always been like this!" I announce, to no one in particular, "I was a hero once!"

No one responds. The sullen emptiness of the bar extends to a drunken silence, perfumed by acrid smoke and fetid breath. My hand runs through my hair as I sigh and sink further into the bar stool.

I take another drink of the strong drink and the hexagonal glass becomes a slideshow of my life. A young blonde kid, grimacing as he stands before a towering monster: the personification of heroism. Tears glimmering down his face as he embraces his rescued friend. A sickly yellow eye. A distressed compatriot. A sword. An opportunity.

"I am such a moron," I lament.

I lean back further against the barstool, reclining and curling my arms across the back of my head. Tendrils of hair flow from my pony tail down across my hands, seeming to pull them into me and drawing me away from the rest of the world. Sparks of loneliness flicker and flare upon the tinder of drunkenness, pulling me into a spiral of despondency and...umm...well, I suppose I'm out of metaphors. Drinking will do that to you.

I twist slightly, and a sudden foreign clatter coming from directly underneath me causes me to start unexpectedly. My eyes dart furtively downward, coming to rest upon the newest addition to my belongings: Oshu's sword, strapped and looped into my belt.

A long, drawn out sigh escapes my lips as my fingers curl around the hilt, drawing it closer to me and away from the chair. The cool, worn leather still feels utterly foreign to my touch, out of place in my grip, despite the year and a half of practice. I am not a man prone to violence, but some of the events of my life have shown me the necessity of an ability to defend myself.

More images of memory spatter across my mind. The kid was incredible with that blade: it wasn't only a set of incredible reflexes or a mind set to quick strategic thinking, but those things mixed with a mere willingness to _act_, an understanding of violent situations and the ability to swing the sword without hesitation. I've become familiar enough with my disappointing self to realize that I have problems with hesitation at the moment of truth, and I don't want to end up coming out of a bad situation with a brand-new sharp steel appendage.

The sudden, unmistakable cacophony of shattering glass jerks me out of my reverie and back to the bar. My head shifts violently to my left, following the noise to an image of trouble. Trouble, in this case, has taken the form of four large men clad in matching red bandannas, whispering forcefully to a bartender with an ashen white face.

My mind begins to race with possible exit strategies: the heavy oaken door seems to be surrounded by an angelic halo of daylight, beckoning to me, pulling me towards it. I shift slightly in the stool, preparing myself for a peaceful exit, only to be betrayed by the grating noise of metal sliding on concrete. I grimace angrily at the stool's betrayal, swallowing hard at the unwanted attention I've just drawn to myself. Unwanted attention, in this case, takes the form of a burly pirate, about 6'2", clad in a roomy trencher and heavy leather trousers. His beady black eyes grab mine, jerking my attention to him as he nears; he fearlessly allows me to watch his hand slip underneath the heavy coat.

"Bar's closed," he mutters gruffly as he approaches. I feel my palms sweat, my heart beat in time with the heavy rhythm of his boots on the dust-covered floor. After what seems to be a lifetime, he stops advancing, stopping to loom over my small frame by the chair. His breath comes out in visible steam, invading my nostrils with the unpleasant scent of grog and rotten meat. Jerky stubble grows in tufts along his face, prickly, unpleasant.

"I suggest you leave, friend," he says, "This place gets pretty unpleasant after closing."

I swallow hard.

"Leave? Right. I... I was on my way out anyway."

Relief floods through me, a palpable sheen of sweat dribbling down my neck at the opportunity I've been given. I leap up and out of the barstool, preparing to step out, when my relief collapses into itself.

"Hey! Wait a second," he demands. As if by its own accord, my butt returns to the groove it had worn into the seat, the leather squeaking angrily as my full weight descends upon it. "You didn't finish your drink."

My eyes flick towards his. Tiny black marbles in the vast wasteland of his massive forehead and brutish nose; they glint with a heavy shine that is both excited and malevolent. I feel my heart drop into my stomach, as the tinges of panic begin to fire electrically throughout the rest of me. I force it down angrily, struggling futilely to keep cool.

"Oh... Right."

I pull the drink to my mouth, letting the leftovers of the cup dribble down my throat. The three-year-old scotch has taken the taste of charcoal and ash, and I choke.

"Don't I know you?" he asks. His voice is sullen, and thick. Kind of like a growling bear with a mouth full of honey.

"Uh..."

"Yeah, you're that idiot who walks around playin' pirate!" he leers, his mouth dribbling honeyed venom. Bait.

"I'm... I'm not a pirate. I'm a treasure-hunter," I explain. I feel the quavers in my throat drift into my speech, as terror pulls me deeper into its icy grip.

"No, you're not a pirate," he agrees, "Pirates have guts. Now its time to pay for your drink, and I'm willing to bet that you have just enough to pay me in that wallet of yours."

His gorilla-hand reaches out, into my coat, grabbing my money-pouch and ripping it away. The cloth tears with a quick, angry ripping noise, jerking me forward and causing me to drop the shooter glass. It tumbles slowly, painfully slowly, to the floor, where it promptly shatters with a soft bang. A horrible smile oozes its way onto my assailant's face, exposing diseased brown teeth and a thick gray tongue.

"Aw, look at that," he coos, "Guess we're gonna have to take that sword, too. To pay off the damages."

My hand drifts unconsciously to the pommel of the blade, gripping it for comfort and warmth. Somehow, and for a reason I cannot identify, my vocal chords tense and my mouth forms the sentence: "I can't give you the sword."

His eyes tighten, and a horrible click ensues from underneath his trencher. I peer down, watching terrified as his hand drifts out from underneath his coat, idly gripping what looks to be a tiny cannon. The device has a wood stock and a metal barrel, which flows easily into some kind of a crude firing mechanism, attached to his finger. I've heard of these 'pistols', but never seen them before; apparently they've become all the rage with the wealthier bands of murderous pirates that drift around in these waters. My stomach drops slightly.

"That's not wise, friend," he whispers dangerously, "Just give me the sword, and you can leave without me putting a hole in that nice coat."

My fingers tighten angrily across the leather grip of the sword. I can feel the knuckles whiten with stress against it, mirroring the fear-spiked adrenaline that courses angrily through my veins. I prepare to give him the sword, when a stifled sob pulls my attention to the bartender.

One of the other pirates has grabbed the bartender by the scruff of his collar, tearing the fabric and pulling him forcefully off of his feet. A shorter one begins to chuckle: high-pitched, rapid bursts of a sound akin to that of a dying rabbit ricochet violently across the room, as the assailant whispers angrily to the stricken store owner. His eyes widen and round into big watery pools of blue and white, as a damp sheen of sweat appears upon his face. I realize that they'll probably kill him after they ransack the place.

I am such a moron.

My teeth chink unpleasantly as I clench down hard, whipping the sword from its scabbard as hard as I can. The man's beady eyes widen in shock and surprise as the heavy pommel of the sword streaks out into his gun hand; an explosion suddenly leaks out from the weapon, cascading into my eardrums and temporarily stunning the bar into a moment of inactivity. Horrified I stare downwards, expecting to see a gaping hole in my midriff; my relief is total when I see no sign of an injury.

A grunting from my opponent drags me back to reality, snapping my gaze upwards and jump-starting my body into action. The sword makes a silver arc as instinct takes over and jerks the weapon backwards over my would-be killer; my attack is rewarded with a crimson spray as his chest and arms are opened by the weapon.

"Son of a-" are his last words as his legs give out and he drops down. Terrified, my eyes flick downwards, watching his as the malevolent shine that was so prominent earlier fades into bleak nothingness.

The distinct sound of clicking metal jars me back to reality, whipping my head up to stare at the remaining three pirates, who seem a little perturbed at the death of their comrade. Instinct takes over, slamming my hand against the cold wooden bar top as I throw myself over it, cascading unceremoniously to the cobblestone pavement below. I hear the three gunshots as my face explodes from the pain of the impact with the ground; there is a heavy thunking noise of something slamming into wood and a bottle explodes into a painful shower of razor-sharp glass. My arms fly protectively over my head, shielding me from the rain of shards but slamming the butt of my sword against my skull, before I realize I need to do something again.

I'm on my feet faster than I thought possible, whipping the sword around and trying my best to look menacing. The men fly towards me, heavy boots slamming against the uneven pavement; the glints of steel being drawn reflect angrily into my eyes. I parry the first strike without thinking, throwing the sword up to protect myself as a long dagger makes it way towards my stomach. There is a heavy clang that reverberates through my arm as the attack dissipates, sending painful shivers through my bones, but I am still collected enough to lean forward into a thrust, jamming the blade into his exposed belly all the way in to the hilt.

Blood dribbles hot and wet over my hand as it leaks out of him; he manages a surprised grunt before I throw my weight backwards and rip the sword out of his gut. Panic now fully sets in as the other two fling tables out of the way to reach me, approaching fast and deadly. I narrow my eyes angrily, struggling to feel like the kid, trying to find the spark of his courage that will pull me out of this mess alive, and I charge forward.

The chair the first man heaves takes me squarely in the jaw, snapping my head back and throwing me to the ground. Stars and specks of light stream across my vision as the shocking numbness of the blow gives way to angry pain, grabbing at my consciousness and threatening to throw me into stupor, but I shake my head to snap out of it before he's on top of me.

The blade of his sword slams down towards me, barely giving me the time it takes to roll out of the way. It clangs angrily against the concrete floor as I swing my sword-arm wildly, practically throwing the shining arc as it traces around me. I feel the point of the sword nick his flesh, opening a thin gash upon his bicep as he retracts in shock and pain, before I throw myself to my feet.

His footsteps make an ungraceful rhythm as he overbalances and totters backwards, struggling to keep his feet, which gives me all the opportunity I need. The point of the blade licks out, aimed at his throat but slamming through his face instead. My stomach flips over as I feel the sword fight through his jawbone, see the spray of carnage shoot out from his cheek, but I grit my teeth and finish him with a thrust to the chest.

He falls to the ground just as I feel the force of a man slamming bodily into me. My feet lift fully up and off the ground, taking flight as the tackle throws me across the room and into a table; the wood cracks and gives under the sudden weight, giving me whole new definitions of the word 'pain' as my body falls through it and crumples ground. Stunned, I gingerly lift my head off the floor, leaning forward to stare into the face of the man whose about to kill me.

His teeth are bared, and his eyes are narrowed, giving him a wholly bestial, feral look as he advances on me, sword out, murder sparking in his irises. A cold realization washes over me as I find my mistake fully realized, as I stare death in the face and feel my mortality pulling at the edges of my soul. Panicked, my hands scramble behind me, coming to rest on something cold and hard that I quickly grab and fling as hard as I can.

It is the first man's knife, and it whizzes angrily through the air, the hilt clobbering the man viciously in the center of his forehead. His head snaps back violently as curses stream from his lips, accompanying the smack of his hand gripping his wounded forehead. Hmm. Well, it sure didn't work like it would have for the kid.

His footsteps are slow and methodical, the death knoll of an executioner's drum, as he steps towards my defenseless, fleshy body. My eyes tighten as I wince hard, shutting them against the horror that is about to happen, when a sudden crash whips them open.

I look up to see the man fall lethargically to his knees, before slumping down against the earth with a loud clump. The bartender stands behind him, his shaking hand clutching a shattered bottle of Whiskey, and the relief I feel is so great that I fall back down against the ground.

"Linebeck, I don't know how to thank you," the bartender says, and I can tell he means it. "I didn't think you had it in you, but you took out the first three like it was nothin'!" A thick, pudgy hand extends forward, reaching for mine.

"I didn't think I had it in me, either," I respond dryly, though the words come out muddier and thicker than I had intended. His grip is hard and firm, reassuring me as I am wrenched up to my feet. Almost immediately, my head starts to swim and I slump against the bar.

"Whoa, whoa, easy guy," he coos, catching me and holding me upright, "I'm gonna take you to the local doc and get these wounds looked at."

I try to smile in reply, but I'm not sure if it comes out that way, given the condition that my face is in. My arm travels around his shoulder, struggling to pull some of the weight off of my rubber legs as he begins to half-carry half-walk me to the doctor. The sword lays forgotten and bloody upon the ground, sitting in front of us as the bartender reaches with his free hand to pick it up.

He hefts it and thrusts it into his belt, holding it as we move. I can feel his heavy breathing as a smile alights his face, warm and affable, accompanying the turn to face me.

"You know what you are, Linebeck?" he begins, "You're a Goddess-damned hero, that's what you are."

Maybe I'm not such a moron, after all.

**A/N:** And there it is! My little Linebeck oneshot! For a while I considered making this a chapter fic, but I kind of like this as a oneshot. However, if I get some reviews asking for this to be a chapter fic, I might change my mind, because I like doing them!

I know, it was a bit violent, but I didn't know how to get around the violence of stabbing and slashing people without abandoning description. Besides, I kind of like throwing a grittier aspect to Linebeck's life. Anyways, thanks a lot for reading, post a review if you liked it, and now on to other things!

I'm not sure if I want to start a Twilight Princess chapter fic right now or just cruise around with some more oneshots. If you've got an opinion, just let me know!


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